is this goodbye?
by GingerGleek
Summary: St. Berry oneshot, angst-y. More Rachel-centric. Rated T because I'm over-cautious. / Her verbal attack should leave her feeling at least mildly satisfied, should it not? She should feel a sense of accomplishment, right? But she doesn't.


**_Disclaimer:_**_ I own the CDs, the DVD, and a couple singles that they didn't put on the soundtracks ... but I don't own Glee._

_**A/N:** So, this came to me last night, and I couldn't stop writing. I finished it at 2:30 a.m. ... but was too tired to coherently reread it and post it, and I'm only getting around to it now._

_I couldn't help writing it; because I'm first and foremost Puckelberry, and adore Cherry and Berryford as well ... but I couldn't help but fall in love with Jesse St. James the moment he appeared on screen. Even after everything, I love him through the hate for what he did._

_And the entire St. Berry situation lends itself to angst quite well, doesn't it?_

_I sincerely hope you enjoy!_

_-0-0-_

She hates it.

Hates the power he holds over her; hates how speechless she is as he stands before her, (in his ridiculous pink shirt, complete with suspenders and bow-tie).

Hates that when she's looking up into his eyes, she can't bring herself to hate him; hates that she can't seem to help but feel things she never felt before except with him. She hates that he could break her heart in half so easily with just a snap of his fingers; (hates that she secretly relishes in the deep connection they have with each other).

Her pupils dilate slightly as she looks up into his light, blue eyes, getting lost in the warmth and depth she finds within them.

"Why are you here?" she asks him, quietly. (She knows he can hear her. He's much closer than she's comfortable with – yet, at the same time, too far away for her liking – and his scent invades all of her senses with every exhale.) It's a rather open ended question, really. What's he doing where, exactly: at Regionals? … in the hallway? … standing so close to her?

The first one she knows the answer to; it's the answers of the second and third that she's most interested in; (and she knows that he knows what she means). He shrugs a little bit, his usually joy-filled face much more solemn than ever before. "I just couldn't stay away, I guess," he tells her, his voice breathy and ringing with an eerie honesty. "I miss you."

_You can't what he says as the truth, though, can you_, a voice in her head chimes in. _When has trusting him ever worked out well for you?_

She tries to look at the situation objectively; see the merit in the fact that he could very well be lying through his teeth.

But another part of her brain refuses. _Yeah, he's a good actor_, it insists,_ but even he's not _that_ good._

And her entire being has to agree; because he can plaster on a bright smile just as well as she can (and after having spent her entire life perfecting a façade, she's proud to say that she does it quite well, thank you very much), but – just like her – his eyes never fail to betray the truth. And in this instance, his eyes are sorrowful with a fair helping of regret.

(The first voice can't help snorting, however, and intoning,_ Are you sure you aren't just seeing what you want to see in him?_)

"Really?" she asks him, just as quietly, with a hard – disbelieving – edge to her voice; (she doesn't _want_ to trust him again, not after everything), "Because your actions of late would suggest otherwise." He visibly and audible winces, and she continues. "Abandoning New Directions, and me; luring me into a trap laid by your teammates; cracking an egg on my head … You don't deserve to 'miss me', not after what you did."

Her verbal attack should leave her feeling at least mildly satisfied, should it not? She should feel a sense of accomplishment, right? But she doesn't.

(She can't but think that: yeah, he doesn't deserve to miss her … but that doesn't mean she isn't secretly rejoiced that he does. And she doesn't _want_ to be … but she is, all the same.)

"You're right," he says quietly, looking down and away in a surprisingly vulnerable gesture. Jesse St. James, vulnerable; she never thought she'd see the day. "I don't," he continues, looking back to her. She wants to look away, but she can't seem to. "I really don't; I guess I'm just banking on your overly-forgiving nature to convince you to give me a moment of your time."

She should say no. She should tell him to stay the hell away from her, and never come back.

"You're lucking I'm pretty forgiving, then." (In the end, 'should' doesn't really mean a damn thing, does it?) She hasn't forgiven him. (She can still feel the egg yolk in her hair; hear his not-so-final words; feel her heart break at his use of the past-tense.) But she isn't holding a grudge, either. (And she just needs him to be around her; it's like a craving in the pit of stomach that – for some reason – needs him near to keep her sane.

A moment of silence passes between them, and neither say a word. She can feel her teammates eyes on her from the door of New Directions' practice room at the end of the hallway – Finn's, Kurt's … probably almost everyone else's. She thinks that he can, too, out of the corner of his eye, from where he has her backed up against the plain, boring off-white walls. She _knows_ he does, because he finally cuts to the chase; (he must be able to feel, as well as she can, the vibes rolling off of Finn that clearly indicate his readiness to break up the situation Rachel seems to have found herself in.)

(She can't even imagine trying to explain to them, should it happen, that she didn't want it to be broken up.)

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, obviously feeling the pressure to get it all out in the open (and over with) as soon as possible. Her eyes widen almost comically; because, yeah, she knows that she deserved an apology … but somehow she never expected him to say those words to her.

He doesn't let her respond; not that she had managed to come up with an appropriate reply, in any case.

"I didn't have a choice." His expression is earnest, his words ringing with the truth. "I know it's a terrible excuse, but I haven't had a choice since day two. I was never really at liberty to leave Carmel in the first place, not with my position; and nothing I did could get them to veto the egging."

Her expression is as hard as she can make it (which is surprisingly soft, her acting skills seemingly having decided to abandon her), when she chokes out, "Was it ever real, Jesse?" This is the question she needs an answer to. Because if he tells her no, she can move on; she can find it within herself to put this behind her and move on with her life. "Even for just a second?"

He's still achingly close to her, and he can see the moisture collecting in her eyes; can see the way she visibly tries to restrain herself and keep the tears in. Just as he chokes out a broken, "Yes," the first tear falls. "When I first saw you, at the bookstore, it wasn't about anything more than you and me."

It's the answer she wanted. She wanted him to tell her that it was real, and that he cared, and that it hadn't started because somebody told him to seduce her. It's the answer she longed for; but not an answer she has any idea how to deal with.

She looks away, blinking repeatedly as more tears roll down her lashes and leave salty residue (and black mascara streaks down her cheeks. (Kurt would have killed her for ruining their make-up had this conversation taken place before the performance.)

Jesse tentatively reaches up, longing for nothing more than to cup her cheek in his palm and press his lips against hers. But she turns her head, and his hand drops. When she looks back, and he sees the look in her eyes, he's knows that it's all just a little too little too late.

She still wants him, so badly. She aches for him so much that it hurts. But she can't even begin to fathom being able to handle him now, like this. She's not prepared, and she knows that if she tries she'll crash and burn. She knows that she's too afraid to put her heart on the line again.

He can see it in her eyes, and he gives her a rueful smile.

"You guys were so amazing out there, tonight; especially you." Her cheeks take on a pinkish tinge, and she struggles to keep her gaze locked on his. "I hope you win it," he whispers, his lips barely moving; she's not even sure he spoke. (She doesn't think he did; not those words, no way.)

"This is goodbye, isn't it?" she asks him quietly, even though she knows the answer. It has to be.

"For now," he says, not willing to think of never seeing her again. "Who knows what the future holds in store for us?"

She gives him a sad smile, because he's westward-bound, and she will only be heading east when her own time comes. (But she doesn't say anything about it, because the teensy, tiny hope that maybe this isn't the end of everything is too appealing to not hold onto and cherish.)

"You're going places, Rachel Berry, I know you are." His voice is more confident than it has been the entire conversation. It's almost smug, in a proud way. It almost doesn't occur to her that she's the one he's proud of. "And when you're up there on stage, wowing the world, I'll be watching you. Don't ever forget that."

(She doesn't know how she ever could.)

He gives in to his earlier desire, cupping her cheek gently and insistently pressing his lips against hers.

It's long, but far too short. It tastes bitter and horrifyingly final; something that can only come from goodbye. Her stomach flips uncomfortably, and her heart aches.

And then he's gone; having slipped right through her fingers, out of the hallway, and on to the rest of his life (and she on to hers). It feels so final, and she feels so empty. She's left whispering, to a deserted hallway, "I'll miss you."

(She misses him already.)

-0-0-

She slips back into their practice room, quietly. Finn's eyes follow her, as do most of the others'. She ignores them, moving to her bag and rifling through it for her compact.

As she suspected, her make-up looks horrendous. And if Noah weren't at the hospital with Quinn and Beth, she's sure he'd jokingly call her a raccoon. (She can't deny that with the dark smudges under her eyes, she sort of does resemble one.) She attempts to wipe the smudges away, but it's in vain and she knows it.

She settles herself down on a couch, popping in her iPod headphones but only pretending to turn on music. Within a minute, everyone is back to their own little worlds, noses out of her business and back where they belong.

She senses an approach – okay, she hears the footsteps – and almost sighs when she feels the couch dip ever-so-slightly beside her. She's looking down, wishing to avoid the looming conversation with whoever's taken it upon him or herself to talk to her. (Kurt? Tina? She doesn't know.)

"Why didn't you sack him?" asks a voice from her visitor on the left, and she looks up in surprise. Of anyone who she'd thought might bother to discuss the well-observed (read: largely eaves-dropped upon) scene in the hallway, she'd never suspected Santana would willingly talk to her for a reason that isn't ironclad and absolutely necessary. "Or yell at him?"

Rachel shrugs, almost wondering herself why those things never crossed her mind. But she knows the answer. (She can feel it within her very bones as she replays her last glimpse of him – his back as he went round the corner and out of her life – and was there ever really any doubt to it all?

"I don't know," she mumbles, letting her gaze stray away, not wanting to get into it with Santana. Even if she were remotely in the mood to rehash what she just had to experience, Santana was probably one of her last choices to confide in. (It's a consequence of throwing someone's lipstick in the toilet, calling her fat and ugly, and so many other things, for years; it makes a person an unlikely choice to place trust in.

"Hey," the Latina softly snaps, recapturing her attention. "No dude who plays you, leaves you, and eggs you is even worth the time of day, okay? You owed it to him to rip him a new one for what he did; why didn't you?"

There a million things she could say. She could say that he was apologetic, or that she didn't have the energy, or that none of it mattered, anyways, so why bother?

She appreciates Santana's words and attempt to comfort (as surprising as it all is), but she has a better answer. One that perfectly sums up everything she could say; and even quiets Santana, who only manages to nod understandingly.

"Because," she whispers, voice breaking and filled with an aching loneliness, "I love him."

_-0-0-_

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